An exodus began when the plague touched down nearly two years ago. That exodus was of “office” workers becoming “home office” workers. This phenomenon occurred almost overnight, at least for those with the option to do so.

I was one of those lost souls, torn from my desk and regular human contact by our rulers’ experiments with things like “15 Days To Slow The Spread”

However, even as our government overlords threw people out of work (sticking it especially to the service industry) and demonstrated what a centrally controlled economy looks like, something else was happening, and I was part of that something.

People like me were having our calls forwarded to our cell phones, figuring out how to set up that second screen on their kitchen tables, and determining we could do yoga in the living room if we moved all the furniture against the wall. It was really all very comfy-cozy, at least if you weren’t a bartender, or in the performing arts.

My significant-other and I managed this arrangement pretty well, this working out of the condo, for a few weeks. But there was friction. She’d lived alone for nearly a decade before moving, right before the lockdown, into my 905 square foot, downtown condominium. Accustomed to doing as she pleased in her spacious, ranch style house in the suburbs of Ann Arbor, she found being thrown into close confinement with another human trying, at best. And it showed. Too many house pets and restricted access to the local watering holes put us both to the test. Manhattans at 3 PM became all too commonplace.

That being the case, I jumped at the chance to go back to the office upon receiving a semi-formal invitation to do so. The conversation went something like this:

Employer: Mark, you can come back to the office if you want to, but you don’t have to. It’s cool either way.

Me: I’ll be there tomorrow. Maybe later today.

The rhythms of my work life returned to something akin to normal, and we were happier for it. Indeed, me going back to the office likely saved our relationship and, perhaps, our lives. She had the condo to herself, dismissed most of her murderous fantasies, and now roamed freely from the “home office” in the spare bedroom to the other “home office” on the kitchen island. Soon, the stress level declined to the point that we stopped regularly referring to the spare bedroom as the “escape room” (though it is used as such to this day.)

Her work life, however, remained static. She was allowed to return to her office, should she desire to do so, but found her floor bereft of humanity on the days she attempted re-entry. She, therefore, logically decided it didn’t make sense to dismantle her home work station if she was still going to be alone, especially in a cavernous space that only amplified her aloneness.

The result: She still works from the condo.

Another result: Like it or not, I am now privy to her early morning group calls.

They’re not a bother. Not really. However…

During these calls I am generally in some state of undress, either heading in or out of the shower. She’s in the bathroom, too, the meeting volume turned up, should her name be called.

For the most part I am able to ignore the inevitable inanity invariably injected into these calls or, for that matter, into any group call.

Why, one might ask, is the inanity inevitable? To this question, I respond: If you’ve ever been in one, you wouldn’t ask that question.

Think: If said meeting provides sufficient blank space for my girlfriend to put on her makeup, brew coffee, and/or perform some light housework whilst on the call, that call is necessarily useless. It means that whatever was in that call could have been conveyed in an email, in turn hastily deleted, the message length vastly exceeding any normal person’s attention span.

Picture this: Stepping out of the shower, I hear The Voice. It’s always the same Voice. Earnest. Approval seeking. The Voice, by its very tone, hopelessly implores the faceless listener to take it seriously, even if the listener is cleaning the mirror in the bathroom or sopping up dog urine in the hallway. The Voice, the haunting Voice, uses the same words as all the other Voices.

The groupthink sounds something like this:

The Voice: “And we think that, you know, by offering this product to our customers we can grab a larger share of their wallet. It’s a way to get deeper market penetration. It’ll make the relationship stickier, thereby lowering customer turnover. Any questions so far?”

Brown Noser Voice: “Um, yeah, Stacy, I have a question. Um, you know, when would be a good time, the right time to push this?”

The Voice: “Well, right after closing, we think. The synergy of this product with the other product is best realized if they are sold together. It’s a real game-changer.”

Voice of Someone Who’s Actually Been Listening: “So, Stacy, this sounds brand new to the market. Is that the case?”

The Voice: “Yes! We’ve taken the lead in this category and our IT people architected the system just for us.”

New Voice – Likely Just a Voice in My Head: “Stacy, would you say this program is results oriented, performance driven, and inclusive? And, also, that the word ‘architected’ is insipid?”

The Voice (now imagined): “Yes, plus it’s flexible, motivating, and empowering. This product is, quite honestly, everything we’ve been looking for in corporate America; and, yes, the term ‘architected’ is super-insipid.”

I stop listening, probably because my stomach is churning but, as likely, the sound of my Sonicare toothbrush successfully drowns out The Voice, if not my own thoughts.

For her part, my significant-other seems wonderfully oblivious to it all. I’m sure the whir of the blow dryer helps with that, but she is tolerant and practiced in a way that I am not.

I count my blessings as I towel off.

Those blessings are as follows: I’m definitely not Stacy…or Tracy…or Macy. And I’ve (mostly) never pretended to give a crap about something I didn’t give a crap about. And I’m not in the service industry or the performing arts.

And, after all these tests, I believe I’m ready for the next Pandemic.

Manhattans, anyone?

—Mark E. Scott is author of the novel Burning Buildings.